


The Winter Palace Errata

by woodironbone



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, Bees, Comedy of Errors, Dragon Age Quest: Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Elfroot, F/M, Food Crimes, Gift Fic, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Multiple Pairings, Oral Sex, POV Multiple, Pregnancy, Present Tense, Recreational Drug Use, Trapped In A Closet, Vaginal Fingering, completely reliable, gosh darn tomfoolery, it's not a plot point, just a character who is pregnant, reliable narration, this entire thing is wholly rigoddamndiculous, trust me i'm the author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-18 09:39:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13097397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodironbone/pseuds/woodironbone
Summary: This definitely didn’t happen. Anyone will tell you that. It wasn’t even in the book!





	The Winter Palace Errata

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paragonraptors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paragonraptors/gifts).



> A long-owed sex comedy in the canon of my good buddy, featuring Niall Hawke, Oliver Lavellan, the intrinsic understanding that EVERYONE (yes, including Hawke) was at the Winter Palace, and the all-important Tethraghast. Happy Candlenights and/or New Year my pal!!

Of all the things that happened at the Winter Palace during the peace talks and surrounding events that finally ended the Orlesian Civil War, there were also several things that _didn’t_ happen—or so their notable absence in Master Tethras’ instant international classic _All This Shit Is Weird_ would have you believe.

Rumor persists, as it is wont to do, especially in Orlais. Unconfirmed reports of chaos at the Winter Palace—no, not _that_ chaos, not all the dreary political unrest, but the far more diverting sort—a party disrupted, a far-fetched solution, multiple persons of interest disappearing into dark rooms with sordid intentions, etc. It is possible, of course, that the reason these things didn’t happen (or at the very least weren’t recorded) is that Master Tethras himself was caught up in the company of his many adoring fans for the duration of the evening—he certainly wasn’t _directly involved_ in the rumored proceedings, oh no; certainly he wouldn’t have tired of all that noble attention, wouldn’t have seized the first available opportunity to escape, and wouldn’t have then used his relatively diminutive stature to his advantage as he wove his way through the press of the crowd, searching for his friends. The goal would be simple enough: locate friends, locate a suitably private room, and share in his personal stash of elfroot. Any friends would do—well, most friends. Sharing a pipe with Madame de Fer, for example, might make for a damn good story, but it would be unlikely at best. And as for the Lady Seeker, following him with her eyes, glaring daggers every time they share a glance? Varric would laugh at the thought if he even bothered to entertain it—if, indeed, any of this happened at all. Which it didn’t.

But for the sake of argument or diversion or both, let us say that it did.

 

“If you don’t stop friggin’ _helping_ I swear I’ll put an arrow right through your creepy little eye!”

Well, that’s Sera all right. Not exactly who he’d been looking for, but Varric isn’t too particular. He shuffles through the darkened Grand Library, glad for the chance to breathe easy without risking some masked dowager tripping over him with a skirt that could drown him. That or being fawned over—he can’t decide which is worse. His publisher is going to get a sternly worded letter, he knows that much. He’d had no idea his books were doing so well amidst the Orlesian nobility, and beyond even the financial questions that raises, he hadn’t been _prepared_ for such… onslaught. The deserted library might be a poor spot to overhear worthy gossip, but he figured it might be a good hideaway for some of his less sociable companions—or the ones who’d be up to no good. And sure enough.

Sera sounds like she’s in a mood, but her moods change easy enough. Varric comes around the corner of one of the many floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and finds her, hunkered down in front of a door, struggling to pick its lock. And beside her—well, he should have guessed, what with her attitude and choice of words.

“I can do it,” Cole promises from under his broad-brimmed hat. “I can make it open. You want to teach them by taking—I can show you what to take. There’s a ring in there one man stole from another, and a book that belonged to a servant… we can give them back.”

Sera snorts loudly. “You want to do them _favors!”_ she accuses, giving Cole a look even more disdainful than Varric would expect from her. “I just want to mess their nights about. You want to help? Go and tell some Lord Ponceyflirt that his Lady Fancyarse is in here waiting.”

“Will she be waiting?” says Cole, sounding doubtful, to his credit.

“No. There’ll be bees!” Sera grins broadly, then switches it off as if suddenly remembering who she’s talking to. “Better still, _go away_ , freaky! I don’t want to talk to you! Ugh!”

Varric rolls his eyes and sighs audibly, drawing both of them to look—Cole, quite casually, probably having known Varric was there all along, and Sera, with a start, her lockpicks clasped behind her back. She relaxes as soon as she sees who it is.

“Can’t you kids just get along?” says Varric, coming forward.

“She doesn’t like that I’m still like a spirit,” says Cole helpfully, “even though I’m _not_ anymore.”

“Don’t matter _what_ you say, you’re still wrong inside.” Sera sticks out her tongue.

“I just want to help.”

“I don’t _need_ help!”

“Really?” Varric steps a little closer, giving the door a thoughtful once-over. “Never knew you to be bested by a simple lock.”

“Well I’m _drunk_ , aren’t I? Aren’t you?” She peers at him.

“Not nearly so much as I’d like,” sighs Varric.

“They all clamor round you,” says Cole quietly, “but they don’t care what’s inside.”

Sera swats at him, still looking at Varric. “Can you get us in here? I mean _me_. Can you get _me_ in here.”

“Yeah, all right. Move aside.” Varric steps in as Sera makes room for him, and he examines the lock for just a moment before sliding his own set of tools in and getting to work. “You know, Buttercup, you ought to be nicer to the kid,” he says. “He _could_ have done this for you, easy. What would you have done if I hadn’t happened along?”

“Would’ve gotten in eventually,” she mutters.

“I understand why I frighten you,” says Cole, “but I don’t mean to. I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

Sera groans long and hard, and Varric raises an eyebrow at her while he fidgets with the lock. “It’s not nice to call someone _wrong_ inside, Buttercup.”

“Okay, fine!” she snaps. “I’m sorry or whatever. Maybe we can… get that servant their book back.” She shrugs sullenly, then looks back at Varric. “What are you doing here anyway?”

Varric feels the satisfying click of the last tumbler and lets the door swing open. “Oh, I’m just looking for company,” he says, considering both of them dubiously. He figures Sera wouldn’t be opposed to smoking up somewhere, but Cole—he’s not sure what that would do to the kid, and he’s not sure now’s the time to find out. Besides, here they are, maybe getting along for once—as close as they can get to it, at least. Be a shame to break that up. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Pfft. You’ll have better luck out there, you know. With all your fancy friends.”

“They only pretend to be his friends so they can feel closer to what makes him shine so bright,” says Cole.

“Yeah. Pretty much what he said.” Varric steps back from the door. “Don’t make too much mess. Bees aren’t particular about who they sting, you know.”

“You’re no fun.”

“You wound me, Buttercup.” Varric smiles and leaves them to it, venturing back out on his mission. Whatever they’re up to, he’s sure it’ll be fine.

Opening the door that leads out to the Vestibule, he jumps back with a start, finding Cassandra on the other side. She glowers down at him, her hands on her hips.

“ _What_ are you doing?” she says.

“Seeker,” says Varric, offering her a wary little wave. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Don’t play games with me, Varric.” She folds her arms across her chest, looking almost imperious. “I want to know what you’re up to.”

He cocks his head up at her. “Well, what does it _look_ like?”

“Wandering about where you’re not permitted? Sneaking from room to room like you don’t want to be seen? You tell me.”

“Sounds like I’ve been up to no good.”

She squints at him for a long, indecisive moment. “You had better not be,” she says finally. “We are all here representing the Inquisition.”

“Don’t you ever relax?” Varric moseys past her, forcing her to follow him. “Everything worked out. Assassination thwarted, Celene and Briala together—true love prevails, or so they’ll be saying. You’re allowed to have a drink and enjoy yourself, you know.”

“I am perfectly capable of enjoying myself without your help,” she huffs.

“Are you? Because you’re the one following me.” He spreads his hands, a universal gesture of _just saying_. “And I don’t remember offering _help_. It almost sounds like you’re asking.”

“I—”

He doesn’t turn to face her, but he can tell she’s flushing angrily, and he smiles to himself.

“Don’t try to change the subject!” she snaps. “If I find out you’ve been up to something—”

“Honestly, Seeker, I’m just looking for Hawke,” he says, his hands raised in defeat. “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“I don’t know. Have I?” He glances up at her to see her making a mocking show of consideration. “I seem to have acquired your notoriously poor memory on the subject.”

“All _right_ ,” he grumbles, and takes a quick sidestep away from her, darting between a few closely clustered nobles and disappearing into the crowd before she can follow. He’ll have to keep shaking her all night, no doubt, but at least she wasn’t expecting it just then.

On little more than a hunch, Varric makes his way from the Vestibule to the Hall of Heroes, and when that yields no results, out to the Guest Gardens. There, finally, he spies his friends huddled together beside the central fountain, where all those caprice coins tend to end up. The gardens are a little more deserted now that the party has begun in earnest—most of the nobles are seeking merriment indoors by now—and Varric is relieved at the opportunity to be relatively alone with his two favorite attendees.

Hawke wasn’t invited, exactly, but after what went on at Adamant Fortress he _is_ more or less a part of the Inquisition, and it’s not in his nature to miss out besides. And after following him all the way to Skyhold _while_ enormously pregnant, Merrill wasn’t about to let him come _here_ without her. Their joint presence has ended up working pretty well in the Inquisition’s favor: the Champion of Kirkwall and his Dalish apostate wife—neither of them particularly… shall we say, _gifted_ at this sort of social setting—easily won the night’s attention on a number of fronts, taking some of the heat off the Inquisition’s investigation, as well as, Varric suspects, off the Inquisitor himself. It has been good to see them again, and they’ve been enjoying themselves heartily all night long, but it’s not until now that Varric has had a chance to share in that with them.

He can hear them conversing in low tones and doesn’t want to eavesdrop, unintentionally or otherwise, so he makes his presence known immediately, approaching with a big grin and his arms open. “Sovereign! Daisy! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

A few of those nobles who are still hanging around are drawn to look their way, but it doesn’t matter; they’ll suffer no interruptions, the three of them.

Hawke turns, already grinning at the sound of Varric’s voice and their fond nicknames. “Varric!”

“Hullo!” says Merrill brightly, giving him a cheery wave. They both look flushed and maybe a little tired, but happy to see him. As Varric draws close, Hawke bends down to give him a big hug, and it’s immediately, abundantly clear how much he’s already had to drink. The scent of his breath could knock a bronto on its ass. Varric chuckles and and gives him a solid pat on the back.

“We’ve hardly seen you tonight, what with all the comings and goings,” says Merrill—she, of course, is quite sober, which is a shame. Not that a coming child is a _shame_ , really, but it’s been ages since Varric got to enjoy the experience of an inebriated Merrill. “You’ve been so terribly busy.”

“The cost of working with the good guys, I guess,” sighs Varric. “At least it’s sorted now.”

“It was very dramatic!” she says approvingly. She may be sober, but she’s no less bubbly and talkative. “Oliver was impressive. I never thought I’d see so many humans—especially _these_ kinds of humans—paying attention to one of the People like that. You know, I met him at the Arlathvhen, a long time ago. We were both very young, but I remember him. There were two in Clan Lavellan that might have been First, but… I knew it would be him. He was such a good boy.” She reaches out to give Varric a friendly pat on the shoulder, unable to bend down for a full hug in her state. “He is doing a wonderful job, isn’t he?”

“He is,” says Varric, patting her hand right back. He hadn’t known they’d met—he’ll have to see if Oliver remembers. It’s no surprise she remembers him. It _had_ been a sight, Oliver standing up to Florianne with all the grace and charm of a seasoned Game-player. Josephine probably wept with joy. Poor kid’s probably exhausted. They all are. “Listen, I’m glad I found you two—I need your help.”

“Oh, oh, wait, don’t tell me,” says Hawke with a glint in his eye. “You lost a family heirloom of great personal value, and only I can get it back.”

Varric shuts his mouth and raises his eyebrows, both unimpressed and patiently waiting.

“You need Niall to find a particular herb that can only be found in a specific spot in the mountains,” Merrill chimes in, giggling.

“Your son’s a murderous madman living in a cave, and you need me to deal with him _discreetly_ so you don’t lose standing with your fellow Magistrates.”

“That’s very specific,” Varric remarks offhandedly, though he well remembers the occasion being referenced. Kind of a dark subject to bring up as a joke, but Hawke _is_ pretty drunk.

“Oh, no, I know!” Merrill snaps her fingers. “Somebody’s after you, and you need our help dueling them by nightfall.”

“ _But_ it’s a _trap_ ,” Hawke points out.

“ _Because_ it’s a trap,” Merrill amends.

“Technically yes, but I’d really rather you didn’t try dueling the Seeker and cause some kind of public incident on top of getting both your asses kicked,” says Varric mildly. “Are you finished?”

“Hmmm,” says Hawke.

“Yes,” says Merrill, looking quite pleased with herself.

“Good, because I’ve got a pocket full of elfroot and no one to help me smoke it,” he says, patting the side of his jacket. “Old time’s sake?”

“Maker, _yes_ ,” says Hawke eagerly, but then he quickly glances to Merrill. “Er… well… the baby…”

“Some mothers in my clan would smoke if they were having pains,” Merrill says tentatively. “I don’t know how much harm it would do.”

Hawke pivots and takes her hands, looking painfully earnest. “If you’re not _sure_ ,” he begins.

“I’m not a wilting flower, Niall,” she chides him gently. “And I’m not going to sit by and watch you two have all the fun!” She gives his hands a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll go light on it.”

“It’s not like it takes much with you, Daisy,” Varric reminds her. Everyone in the Kirkwall circle was privy to at least one elfroot-related incident in the Hanged Man. Merrill could hold her liquor reasonably well, but a few too many hits of elfroot and she was liable to wind up straddling Hawke in his chair, not-quite-whispering filth in his ear while he blushed and melted uselessly beneath her. Scarred Sebastian for life and gave Isabela plenty of fodder for her friend-fiction on the subject, and while both of those outcomes were fun, it’s probably not a great idea to take her down that path again while she’s this close to having a baby—wilting flower or no.

“We can use our room,” says Merrill, looping her arm through Hawke’s. “I think I’m ready to be off my feet a while.”

“You know what we’ll need, though,” says Hawke as he walks leisurely along with her, Varric coming up beside them. “ _Snacks_.”

“Oh,” says Merrill. “I hadn’t thought of that! I am a bit hungry.”

“Be hungrier after a smoke.” Hawke looks thoughtful for a moment. “Think we can persuade some of the servants to help us out?”

“They’ve been through enough for one night, I think,” says Merrill.

“Suppose you’re right. I don’t suppose they’ll agree to serve us there, either.” Hawke frowns.

“Might have to do without, love,” says Merrill apologetically.

“ _Unless_ ,” says Hawke.

They look at him expectantly, but he’s waiting for someone to take the bait. Varric sighs, knowing he has to oblige, also knowing Hawke well enough to know he should be wary: “Unless?”

“We smuggle it in _ourselves_.” Hawke seems to believe this is a creative and clever suggestion; he looks between them, receiving only different flavors of unimpressed stare. “What? It’ll be fine. We have the perfect cover.” He pats Merrill’s belly gently, and she rolls her eyes.

“You sure about that, Sovereign?” says Varric dryly.

“I bet you Orlesians do it all the time,” Hawke insists. “We can do it. I did learn a thing or two from you and Isabela, after all.”

Merrill shakes her head, but she can’t help smiling at him. “All right,” she relents. “I just hope we don’t get any servants in trouble.”

“I’ll leave a note,” says Hawke doggedly.

“Count me out of that endeavor,” sighs Varric. “I’m being watched.” If Cassandra catches him in the act of stealing anything—even something so harmless as food off the buffet table—he’ll never hear the end of it.

“Leave it to us,” says Hawke.

“I suppose you could go ahead to the room and wait?” says Merrill. “Unless… is there anyone else you’d like to join us?”

Varric hadn’t thought of that. He’s a little surprised at the suggestion—he’d assumed this would just be the three of them, old friends having a laugh together after a tense night. But since it’s offered, and they both look agreeable…

“Well…” he says. “I don’t know if he’d be up for it, but I could at least check with Oliver. He could probably use a break.”

“Oh, yes,” says Merrill, nodding seriously. “See if you can find him, and we’ll meet back at our room. It’s on the second floor of the guest wing, all the way at the end of the east hall.”

“Got it,” says Varric. “No promises about Oliver. He… might not be in the mood.”

“Well, give him my best anyway!” she says, and waves him off.

“Go team!” says Hawke with a little fist pump and a ridiculous grin as Merrill tugs him away.

Varric smirks and heads in his own direction, back to the ballroom—where he’d last seen Oliver. It’s terribly crowded here, and he grimaces as he makes a slow circuit around the room, scanning through tight-panted legs and hooped skirts for anyone he knows. A lot of his friends are here, actually—as he wanders, he sees Vivienne regaling several nobles with conversation topics that are either incredibly boring or incredibly dangerous, or actually probably both; Leliana, holding tense, muted conversation with Celene’s arcane adviser; Solas, frowning indistinctly around the room like he does; Cullen, surrounded by people and visibly begging for the sweet release of death; Blackwall, standing awkwardly in a corner sipping a drink far too fancy for him; there’s Sera again, picking someone’s pocket, and a moment later Cole at the same pocket, putting something back. The Iron Bull’s on the dance floor, dazzling Orlesians with antics that have Josephine in a state—Varric can see stress radiating off her even from across the room.

The Inquisitor, unsurprisingly, is avoiding the crowd. Varric finally spies him through the open door to the balcony; he’s with Dorian, the two of them standing quite close, Dorian’s arms wrapped around Oliver’s thin frame. As Varric watches, Oliver laughs at something Dorian’s said and tucks his chin down as if to hide it; Dorian reaches to tip his chin back up and kisses him.

Varric looks away quickly. Sure, it’s good to have those juicy details for any future publications, but he doesn’t want to gain them like some sort of creepy voyeur. He’s thinking he ought to just back off and leave them to it when Dorian catches sight of him and straightens up in surprise.

“Varric,” he blurts, and Oliver turns, stepping away from Dorian by just an inch—not embarrassed, necessarily, but discreet.

“Sorry,” says Varric, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. He shuffles out onto the balcony, feeling stupid for having been caught. “I was looking for you—didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Is everything all right?” asks Oliver gently.

“Oh, fine. Me and Hawke and Merrill were just about to meet up at their room for a smoke. Wondered if you wanted in. Quality elfroot.”

Oliver raises his eyebrows and glances at Dorian. “Perhaps,” he says after a moment. “If…”

“Oh, by all means,” says Dorian, waving a hand. “Let me just snatch a bottle or two of that Antivan red from the wine table and I’ll be happy.”

Such thievery from all his favorite mages tonight. Varric would be jealous, if he had anything he particularly wanted to steal.

“Surely you don’t need _two_ bottles,” murmurs Oliver with a subtle smile.

“I don’t know. I’ve read _The Tale of the Champion_. I’ve at least some idea what this Hawke fellow is like when he’s… in a state.”

“I may have exaggerated for comedic effect, Sparkler,” says Varric.

“Even so.”

“We’ll meet you there,” says Oliver, his delicate fingers brushing over the inside of Dorian’s wrist. A subtle gesture, one Varric would have missed if it hadn’t happened on his eye level—a sign they aren’t quite finished with their business here. “Give us a moment.”

“Of course.” Varric gives them the room location and heads off, figuring he can get there first and let them in. It’ll be weird, spending time with all four of them, but he’s looking forward to it, too. However he doesn’t get very far when he hears his own name cutting through the general haze of background noise—a distinctly Orlesian voice uttering “ _Master Tethras!”_ in a very audible whisper. That was the danger in coming out here, where there’s _people_ everywhere gasping for a little entertainment. He’s been seen.

“Balls,” he mutters, and picks up the pace as if he hasn’t heard them, nonchalantly hauling ass back toward the Vestibule. He has no desire to be waylaid by more questions about where he gets his _inspiration_ , or worse, to be followed and discovered smoking up one of the guest rooms with the Champion of Kirkwall, the Herald of Andraste, a Tevinter mage, and a Dalish apostate. It would be an absolute nightmare for Josephine. If he can just lose them in the crowd…

Trouble is, as soon as he steps into the Vestibule, there’s only _more Orlesians_ , and his abrupt appearance catches their attention. He’s caught staring back at a little cluster of masked ladies, knowing if he takes off now, they’ll smell scandal and follow.

One of the ladies waves excitedly, motioning him over. They’re already gathered around someone, he realizes, and it’s someone he knows. Well, shit. He can use this to his advantage, though the cost might not be worth it. Not much choice either way.

“Why, Seeker!” he says, flipping the charm on like a light. “I’ve been looking all over for you! Did you know the Inquisitor’s been asking to see you?”

Cassandra turns, and in the instant before her expression shifts to the traditional blend of skepticism and distaste, he sees a flicker of the same desperate misery he’d seen in Cullen. Well. It seems they can help each other.

“To see _me_?” she says, openly dubious and not helping at all.

“Oh, Master Tethras,” says one of the young ladies, “Lady Pentaghast was just telling us all about—”

“ _Hush_ , Cecilie!” another one scolds. “Can’t you hear them talking about the Herald of Andraste?”

“That’s right, the Herald himself asked me to find you,” says Varric. “It’s an urgent matter.”

“Urgent,” repeats Cassandra.

“Entirely.”

“A matter relating to the Inquisition.”

“An Inquisitorial matter, to be sure.” He stares at her, never letting his grin fade but thinking at her, with all the power of his mighty wit, _Andraste’s ass, would you just work with me here?_

For her part, Cassandra merely scowls at him, leaving the noble ladies to watch them attentively like so many startled birds. Cassandra seems to be sizing him up, weighing the cost of going along with his obvious scheme against her deep desire to escape this social engagement. How flattering, Varric thinks, that she’s actually considering _talking to nobles_ over accepting his offer of help.

Finally, she softens her glaring just a bit and turns back to the women. “I must go, then,” she says, and walks away before they have a chance to wish her well or ask for her return. Poor etiquette, to be sure, but Varric doesn’t care. He turns and leads her down an adjacent hall, going at quite a leisurely pace for all his purportedly urgent purposes. He glances up at her and smiles smugly.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

She huffs but makes no immediate reply.

So the good news is he’s got the grumpiest woman in the world to help fend off noble attention, but the bad news is he’ll have to shake her again before he steals away to Hawke and Merrill’s room, and she’s going to be keeping a closer watch on him after he escaped the last time. She’d been getting more lax before they got to Skyhold, and now—well, ever since Hawke showed up, she’s been colder and harsher. Is she _really_ still mad about that, after everything Hawke’s done for them?

Cassandra follows him in silence until finally Varric can’t stand it any longer.

“Is there something I can do for you, Seeker?”

“I had been wondering the same of you,” she says coldly. “You did liberate me from those ladies, after all.”

“What, I’m not allowed to perform random acts of kindness now either?”

“Perhaps if I believed it to be entirely _random_ ,” she says, peering down at him, “or kind.”

He throws up his hands. “You are the most impossible woman to please in all of Thedas. So I kept Hawke a secret from you—is that why you still don’t trust me? Or did I do something else I’m not aware of?”

“Is that not sufficient reason?”

“You may find this hard to believe, Seeker, but I’m not _always_ up to something.” He stops at the door to the Guest Wing, refusing to continue with her in tow, and spins around to face her. “I kept Hawke a secret because he’s my friend, and I owed it to him. I didn’t owe _you_ anything.”

“It wasn’t for _me_ ,” she says, an edge of fury coming into her voice. “It was for all of Thedas. It was for the Divine!”

“Thedas seems to be doing all right tonight, if you’ll pardon the optimism,” he mutters. “The Inquisitor’s doing a good job, or don’t you think so?”

“I _do_. But we might have prevented the disaster at the Conclave, Varric. We might have been able to do _more_ , if you’d only—” She cuts herself off, looking away. “I do not expect you to understand.”

“I understand. I just thought we’d been through this already.” He crosses his arms across his broad chest and looks away, frowning down the hall. “I’m tired, Seeker. It’s been a long night—a long year. We’ve all earned some time off. You included. Tomorrow there’ll be more to worry about—bigger things than what I’m up to at this damn party. I’ll be there with you, with everyone, we’ll all be worrying about it together. I know I’ve screwed up, all right, but just for _once_ , let me off the hook, would you?”

Cassandra seems taken aback, hovering uncertainly beside him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees some of the tension draining from her, a suitable softening of limbs. “Varric…” she begins.

Several screams cut through their conversation, snapping them both to attention as they stare toward the source of it, at the other end of the Vestibule. The nobles there are in hysterics, running about frantically.

“What—” Cassandra takes a step forward, ready to fight whatever threat might reveal itself, even without her weapons or armor.

And then the threat _does_ reveal itself, and she blanches before taking an immediate step back.

“ _Bees!”_ screams one of the nobles from behind his absurd mask. “Oh, Maker, bees! They’re everywhere!”

Cassandra clenches a fist. “ _Sera_ ,” she spits, full of venom.

“Well,” sighs Varric, “shit.”

She whirls on him. “You _knew about this!”_ she accuses, and before he can even rise to defend himself, he realizes, infuriatingly, that she’s right.

“I thought she was joking!” is a shoddy defense but he goes with it anyway. It doesn’t matter now; the bees have escaped from wherever Sera stored them, and now the entire Palace is dipped back into mayhem as the nobles run rampant, raising the alarm and stirring up panic.

Far more pressing is that the bees are rightly riled up and, as Varric had previously noted, not at all particular about who they sting.

“Come on!” he snaps, grabbing Cassandra’s arm and making a break for it.

“We can’t just _run!”_ she protests, even as she goes along with him.

“What do you want me to do? Employ my famous bee handling talents?”

“I am going to _kill her_ ,” Cassandra growls, and Varric isn’t entirely sure she’s exaggerating.

Varric pulls Cassandra around a corner, where they promptly slide to a halt on the waxed floors; behind them, a swarm of angry stingers, before them, a bottlenecked cluster of terrified nobles. Varric looks around for any kind of egress, sees a door to their immediate left, and doesn’t hesitate. He shoulders his way in, dragging Cassandra along with him, succeeding only because she is too bewildered to stop him. Then he slams the door and locks it for good measure, plunging them into muffled, relative quiet. The room is small and lit by a single lantern. As he looks about himself he realizes it’s a cloakroom.

“What,” says Cassandra, her voice heavy, thick with indignation, “have you done?”

“Saved our damn hides,” says Varric irritably. He might be overselling it a bit—it was only bees, after all—but he’d rather be stuck in here than getting stung up out there amid shrieking Orlesians.

“We are part of the Inquisition,” Cassandra says sharply.

“How is this the Inquisition’s business to fix?” he demands, looking up at her.

She stands half-shrouded in thick black cloaks, glaring down at him. “Sera is _our_ responsibility, as is the damage she causes.”

“And what are _you_ going to do? Are you planning to punch every individual bee until you get to her?” Varric huffs out a laugh at the thought. “What’s done is done—if anyone’s going to deal with it, it’s Josephine, later, not you or me now. Please, for the love of Andraste, just relax for a minute.”

“I will not!”

“Then…” he shrugs and steps away from the door, “you’re free to go back out there. I’m staying put until the shouting stops.”

Cassandra wavers, looking at the door, listening to the cries and the angry buzzing outside. She scowls, folds her arms tightly, and slouches back. Nothing about her says _relaxed_ , but at least she’s staying put.

“It’s a start,” sighs Varric.

*

Elsewhere and outside Varric’s scope of observation there were other matters of note. Not unrelated—with the bees released, everything was more or less unified under the singular catalyzing force those bees represented—but not the sort of thing Varric would have known to write down, either. Which is why it doesn’t appear in the book. That, and it didn’t happen—just like everything else which so far hasn’t happened.

Niall stands at one of the many buffet tables, pondering his partially stolen selections—a plate of meats, including the much-discussed despair-flavored ham, and a handful of long, hard wands of lightly seasoned bread—some Antivan delicacy, apparently. Upon reflection, he isn’t sure whether the so-called perfect cover of his wife’s pregnancy was meant to be her inherent need to eat for two, or the idea that stolen goods could be somehow _stashed_ in her gown. It’s while puzzling quietly over the conundrum of how, exactly, _that_ would go over when Merrill seizes his arm and the hall goes up in screams.

The sudden, surrounding alarm whips Niall into immediate action; he turns on his heel, stepping instinctively, protectively, drunkenly, ridiculously in front of his wife. Both of them are without their staves, equally disadvantaged and thus equally capable of defending themselves against any threat. Well, almost any threat; against a raging army of _bees_ there is very little either of them can do without damaging the hall and everyone in it with copious splash damage. Niall might be able to offer healing to those stung, but one will remember that he is currently holding food in each hand, and is sorely inebriated to boot.

As it is, Merrill’s sobriety and subsequently unencumbered response time is what saves them from a truly unpleasant fate: she tugs hard on his arm, hauling him, his handful of breadsticks, and the entire plate of meat cutlets along with her, through the nearest exit, out into one of the Winter Palace’s many gardens.

“ _Bees_ ,” is all Niall manages to sputter, both remarking on the sight and unable to believe it.

“I saw,” she says shortly, and turns back to see him still over-laden. “Mythal’s mercy—give me those.” She takes the entire bounty of breadsticks and shoves them into her pack, which she insisted on carrying despite the clear fashion _faux pas_ —every servant they’ve encountered has tried to take it from her. “I _knew_ this would come in handy!”

“Where are we going?” Niall asks as he runs, endeavoring to keep the plate balanced. A glance over his shoulder tells him there are no bees in immediate pursuit, but there _could_ be.

“I don’t know!” Merrill is slowing down already, huffing as she tugs on her skirts and struggles to support her extra weight. “Anywhere will do as long as it has a door.”

“Here—” Niall hands her the plate of meat and bends down to swoop her up into his arms without coming to a full halt. Their continued movement, his drunkenness, the logistics of the damn food tray, and the surprise of her full weight all conspire to make this a much more difficult task than he’d anticipated, but somehow he manages it, running at top speed into an unfamiliar part of the Palace, Merrill in his arms, the cold cuts balanced neatly on her belly.

It is at this moment that the full absurdity of it all hits Merrill and she can’t stop laughing.

“Shh!” Niall exclaims, though her merriment is infectious. He starts giggling as he searches the new corridor for any sense of a destination. There is absolutely no one in sight, and yet he still adds “We’ll be caught!” in a loud whisper.

“ _Bees!”_ she squeaks, taking one hand from the tray to wipe at her eyes. “Wh—why are there _bees?”_

“I don’t—” Distractedly, Niall turns them around and hurries up the hall to the nearest door. He prays it’s not locked; he can’t keep this up for long. “Maker’s balls. Is this _normal_ in Orlais? You never can tell.”

“I don’t think so.” Merrill reaches out to try the knob for him, and mercifully, the door swings open. “Nobody seemed very happy about it.”

“They like their ham to taste of _despair_ , Merrill.”

“Well, they can keep that and the bees, too.” As soon as they’re inside with the door shut behind them, Niall lets Merrill down. She stands gingerly and looks for a moment at the plate in her hands before she starts laughing all over again. “Niall… what am I doing with an entire plate of meat?”

“Well, I didn’t have time to get choosy, did I?” Niall scrubs a hand through his hair and looks at her, grinning. He’s out of breath, confused, and has no idea where they’ve ended up—some sort of parlor, from the look of it, very dimly lit—but all of that feels unimportant right now. “Here.” He takes the plate off her hands and sets it on the nearest table. She upends her pack and dumps the breadsticks unceremoniously beside it.

“Quite the feast you got us,” she says, giving him a wry smirk.

“What can I say? I’m a provider.” He winds an arm around her waist and gazes down at her for a moment before lifting his eyes to the plush-looking sofa behind her. “Come on, let’s get you off your feet.”

“ _Please_ ,” she agrees, turning to walk and letting out a startled little _oop!_ when he picks her up again. She bursts out laughing again, now looking quite flushed in the low light. “ _Niall!_ I can make it five feet!”

“Nope. I’m carrying you everywhere now. I’ve had a taste and there’s no going back.” He is quite gentle as he lays her down on the sofa, a comical contrast to her uproarious laughter. She covers her face, peeking up at him through her fingers until she finally settles and draws her hands away slowly. She gazes up at him with a small, soft smile, and reaches out to take his hand in hers.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs.

Her smile widens some, and she lifts his hand to kiss his knuckles delicately. “Does that door lock?” she says, her lips still brushing against his hand, one eyebrow raised.

Niall’s eyebrows shoot up and he goes rigid for a moment before glancing back at the door, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Er, it should,” he says. “But—what about—”

“It’ll be _fine_ , Niall,” sighs Merrill.

“No, I meant… Varric.”

“Oh!” She covers her mouth, now blushing bright red. “Oh, poor Varric! Do you suppose he made it to our room…?”

Niall chews his lip. He very much wants to go and find his friend, or at the very least make sure he hasn’t been accosted by bees or nobles, but they’re _here_ , and Merrill is looking at him like that, and there are, well, bees and nobles out there.

“Should we look for him?” She’s already starting to get up.

“You ought to rest.” He lowers himself down slowly, one knee bent on the sofa, his hands trailing over the fabric of her skirt, her long legs beneath.

Merrill leans back after a moment. “If he goes looking for us, I’m sure he’ll piece it together.” She smiles, reaching up to stroke the side of Niall’s face. “And get a better story out of it.”

“Mmh.” The excess of wine in his system and the feel of her fingers against his skin is making this decision much easier than it might otherwise have been. Niall gazes at Merrill, who gazes back for a moment before cupping his chin with a lofty, seductive smirk.

“Well?” she says softly. “Go on.”

He feels a little thrill up the back of his neck as he scoots back, pushing her skirts slowly, carefully, reverently up, leaning down until he’s nestled good and close between her thighs.

“You didn’t lock the door,” she breathes, her fingers tangling tightly into his hair.

“We’ll chance it,” he replies.

*

“What _are_ you doing?”

Varric is lighting his pipe, is what. If he can’t meet Hawke and the others for a smoke, he’s going to damn well do it here. No sense letting it go to waste.

“You want in on this?” He takes a slow, satisfying drag, watching Cassandra as she scowls down at him.

“Absolutely not. We are not here to _enjoy_ ourselves.”

“It’s a _party_ , Seeker.”

“I meant here in this closet!” she snaps, recognizing a moment too late that Varric knew exactly what she meant. She looks away quickly, her arms folded even tighter than before.

He shrugs his shoulders, exhaling a puff of smoke into the already somewhat stuffy air. “Suit yourself.”

She watches him smoke for a moment, saying nothing. He can practically feel the irritation radiating off her, and while he normally wouldn’t want to share a close space with that energy, right now he lacks the will sufficient to find it anything other than entertaining. The Inquisitor has done his best to make peace between them, and while Varric suspects things won’t ever be fully harmonious, he’s less inclined to fear her violent wrath. In fact he’s almost come to enjoy their constant contention, even if it frequently makes his life difficult—it keeps him on his toes, or it’s good for a laugh, or something. Or maybe that’s just the elfroot.

Either way, he settles in, leaning back against the wall as he gradually fills the cloakroom with a faintly sweet-smelling haze, and the more Cassandra glares, the more he enjoys himself.

“If you think I am not going to tell Josephine exactly _why_ all these nobles have smoke in their coats,” she says after a long silence, “you are sorely mistaken.”

Varric takes the pipe out of his mouth and rests his hand on his chest, affecting a theatrical pose of scandalized indignation. “And you did _nothing_ to stop me?”

“Are you trying to _goad_ me?” she says, and it’s almost like he can _see_ her puffing up, like some sort of offended bird.

“In my defense, it’s very easy,” sighs Varric. “But think of the scandal it would cause—all these Orlesians finding out you beat up their favorite author in a coat closet. Odor is one thing. But blood? Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of furs? All these fancy cloaks… ruined.”

“Are you so sure they wouldn’t just double in value?” she says with what might almost be a wry smirk of her own.

He considers her curiously. That was almost a compliment, wasn’t it? He can’t be too sure. Maybe best not to think of it. She might not be wrong, either, he thinks with a concerned frown. “Shit, they might just be crazy enough to go for that. I can never predict these people. Sure didn’t expect _Hard in Hightown_ to be the talk of the damn court, either.”

“Orlesian taste has always been one of the Maker’s great mysteries,” says Cassandra.

“Ouch,” he says, rather mildly. She doesn’t reply, and he goes on smoking in silence for a while, gazing indistinctly at nothing. He can feel the steady onset of pleasant warmth and fuzzy-headedness that goes along with it, feels his muscles relaxing by degrees, making it much easier to settle into the inherent weirdness of this situation. Outside, there’s still commotion, which seems like a distant issue now. He lets his eyes slide back to Cassandra and catches her looking away, the edges of her mouth turned up in a little smile, maybe still feeling smug after her last jab. Gifted with this rare opportunity of actually _looking_ at her, he indulges himself: her cheekbones, high and fierce and probably capable of killing a man, the dark lashes of her averted eyes, the aggressive arch of her brows, the notable flush in her faintly freckled cheeks. That scar cutting a harsh line though it, down to the sharp angle of her jaw. He smokes in contemplation, fully aware of where his once-casual curiosity is turning, and not in any hurry to right its trajectory.

Oh, shit, she’s looking at him.

He sputters and coughs, and when he sneaks another glance her way she’s still staring at him like she might be trying to determine whether or not he just picked her pocket.

“ _What?”_ he grunts, wishing he had something to drink.

Cassandra is quiet for a moment longer before she unfolds her arms and looks rather vacantly at her hands. “I think I am _feeling_ it,” she says.

“Oh,” he says, then frowns deeply. “ _Oh_.” He didn’t exactly think it would happen that quick just from contact, but there _are_ in an enclosed space, and this is _very_ potent stuff, and for all he knows she’s a huge lightweight. Didn’t really think about that, did he? Great, now he has something else to feel guilty about. “Ah, crap—I can put it out if—”

“Why?” Her eyes flash accusingly. “I am not some delicate maiden.”

“I… never suggested otherwise?”

“Do you think I cannot hold my—I could drink you under the table.”

“Seeker,” he says slowly, “this is different from drinking. You’re high.” A chuckle rises up in his chest but he tamps it down stubbornly. “Have you ever _been_ high before?”

“Of course I have!” she says. “Once! A… long time ago.” She looks away, frowning—almost _pouting_ , really—then holds her hand out to him. “Give me the damn pipe.”

Varric’s eyes widen slightly. “Are you—”

“Do not treat me like I am made from glass, Varric,” she snaps.

Fair enough. Who is he to argue, anyway. Wordlessly, he holds the pipe out, and she takes it and takes a slow, hesitant toke. She comes away coughing violently, and he does his best not to laugh at her.

“It’s repulsive,” she comments before inhaling more. She’s really going for it. Varric stares at her in mixed amazement and horror. “The _Inquisitor_ does this?”

“It’s been known to happen,” says Varric, a grin breaking slowly across his features. He can’t quite believe this is happening. This might be the only thing in the world that would be worth missing out on time with Hawke. It’s close, at least. He holds out a hand. “Here, don’t smoke it all. Take it easy.”

“I take it just fine,” she says stubbornly, but she hands it back. He chooses not to spin that into any kind of double entendre, tempting though it may be. They’re not there yet.

“You were staring,” she says abruptly, almost making him deteriorate into another coughing fit.

“Beg pardon?” he says, giving her a look that he hopes is appropriately disgruntled.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about.” Elfroot seems to make Cassandra even bolder than usual; she’s just staring at him now, one eyebrow arched, lips just hinting at a smile.

“And now _you’re_ staring at _me_ ,” he says, affecting a very intentional nonchalance. “Finally drawn in by the chest hair, are you? I knew you couldn’t resist me forever.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Is that a blush, or the sign of her growing insobriety? Either way, she doesn’t stop looking at him; in fact she seems quite determined to stare at his face, not to let her eyes wander down to his partially open tunic. She is not entirely successful.

Varric cracks a slow, steady smile. This is new; not surprising, really, it’s the sort of dance they’re always on the verge of without ever really acknowledging it, but _new_. Figures it would take a disaster, a closet, and some light substance abuse to bring it to the surface. Not that he’s complaining. “Why, Seeker,” he drawls, “is _that_ what you were after, all this time? Kidnapping me, dragging me halfway across Thedas—that new chapter of _Swords and Shields?_ Never would have taken you as the long-game sort, but I can’t say I’m—”

He always forgets how long non-dwarf arms are. Cassandra reaches out and grabs him by the front of his shirt in a single quick motion, barely having to lean forward at all. She jerks him forward slightly, cutting him off. She doesn’t quite manage to shake the smile from his lips, which are now parted, drawing a slow breath of smoky air. He doesn’t resist, and for a heady moment they’re just suspended there, staring at each other, Cassandra wavering visibly between options—punch his lights out, or something else, something too unthinkable to name?

Finally, after several failed attempts, she manages to speak, her voice low and dangerous. “If you tell _anyone_ about this,” she says, and seems like she might be about to let the unspoken threat just hover between them.

Varric doesn’t need it to hover; doesn’t need it at all. “If _I_ tell anyone?” he says, half-laughing. “Seeker, if anyone finds out about this I’m joining the damn Chantry.”

“Now _that’s_ a terrifying thought.” She smiles rather coolly. She doesn’t let him go, her fingers curling a little tighter into the bright red silk. “Take this off,” she says quietly, so matter-of-fact and unexpected that Varric actually shudders a little. As an afterthought, she adds, “And give me the pipe back.”

*

The chaos that seeps into the ballroom is difficult to miss, even from across the massive space. Oliver turns sharply, adrenaline flaring up under his skin—he feels sick to his stomach, still tired after what he’s been through tonight, not ready for whatever new disaster has befallen them. Beside him, Dorian turns as well, holding a bottle of wine in each hand.

For a confusing moment they can’t make out what, exactly, is happening—Vivienne, Blackwall, Cullen, and some of the others are already stepping into action across the room, but they don’t seem to know entirely what to do. Oliver squints into the fray and realizes the strange fuzz in his vision is actually movement created by hundreds of tiny bodies. A swarm. Of bees.

Creators have mercy.

“ _Fasta vass!”_ Dorian staggers back and somehow manages not to drop anything.

“Sera!” snaps Oliver, not indirect frustration, but direct address: he spots her darting between panicking nobles, wide-eyed and gleeful. As soon as she hears her name and catches sight of him, the glee slips from her face.

“I didn’t do it!” she yelps.

Oliver ignores her for the moment, stepping forward in a few swift strides and raising his hands. “Help me,” he says tersely to Dorian, who is already beside him, bottles abandoned. Without their staves the casting takes a fraction longer and is harder to maintain, but it seems Vivienne, Solas, and Morrigan have all had more or less the same idea, and their collective effort proves to be a stabilizing force. From all sides of the ballroom a great barrier forms, the five of them jointly scooping the bees into a buzzing, undulating orb of terror.

“Now what?” Dorian demands. They can’t exactly communicate with their compatriots—it would be a ridiculous shouting match even without the confusion of screaming nobles all around them.

“They’re frightened,” murmurs Cole, appearing so suddenly beside Oliver that it nearly breaks his concentration. Oliver looks at him, but Cole’s gaze is fixed upward at the magical net that is barely holding back the impending disaster. “And angry, so angry. They want to sting _everyone_. But if they do that, they’ll die.”

“Do you have any _suggestions_?” Dorian says rather impatiently.

Cole is in no hurry; even with seething hysteria around him, he is the picture of calm. He ducks his chin down and nods slowly. “I think I can talk to them,” he says. “They’re hard to talk to—so many voices, all speaking together—their minds are small, but together they’re _big_. They think together.” He tips his head back up. “I can talk to that thought, I think; I can make it— _them_ calm, for a moment. Remind them that they just want to be out in the gardens, where there are flowers. It—it’s harder, now that I’m—but I think I can do it. They don’t need to die.”

“I’m all for another bloodless ending,” says Oliver dryly. “Just please _hurry_ , we can’t hold this forever.”

Cole keeps his gaze fixed on the bees and for a moment, nothing seems to happen at all; then the buzzing quiets and the bees start to settle inside the barrier, fighting against it less and less. A palpable hush comes over the room as the nobles start to take note of what’s happening above them.

“Let them go,” whispers Cole. “They want to go _out_. They won’t hurt anyone. They just want _out_.”

“Aww,” Sera volunteers; she’s been watching all this with big eyes, and now she frowns with genuine disappointment.

Oliver shoots a dark look in her direction and she goes uncharacteristically, sheepishly quiet. It’s exceedingly rare that Oliver finds reasons to be really, wholly angry at his friend, but _this_ —after things had finally quieted down—certainly does the trick. He keeps his eyes on her as he lets his portion of the barrier drop; Dorian follows suit, and without them their companions can’t maintain it. The barrier collapses, and the bees float in a confused, lazy, but ultimately _outward_ direction, through the open windows and doors, into the night.

It takes several moments for things to quiet down from there. Many people have been stung, but otherwise no one seems terribly worse for wear. Celene and Briala are already working to pacify the party-goers, making perfectly poised speeches from the head of the room, while servants and their fellow mages alike sift through the crowd to provide poultices or magical healing. To all this, Oliver doesn’t pay very close attention. He’s still staring at Sera, silently demanding an explanation.

“Soooo,” she says, shifting her weight, “I didn’t _know_ they were going to get out, exactly.”

“What was your _plan_ with this, exactly?” Dorian says, sounding like he isn’t sure whether he’s annoyed or amused.

“I just… thought it would be funny if…” She fidgets and looks around, making an expansive shrugging gesture as if this covers it. “But yeah, uh. At least… you took care of it, yeah? Big win for magic, right?”

Oliver opens his mouth to answer, but he doesn’t have the energy to sustain his anger; and in the end he doesn’t need to. Josephine appears from the crowd behind Sera, swift and silent as a shadow, and seizes her arm, all the while smiling at Oliver in a broad, unnatural rictus.

“Sera!” she hisses in a cheerful, deadly whisper. “You will come with me. _Right. Now._ ”

“Aw frig—!” Sera turns, wide-eyed once again and this time with abject terror, to Oliver, grasping at him even as Josephine starts hauling her elsewhere. Quickly realizing Oliver is in no position to help her, she turns instead to Cole, who’s watching impassively. “Weirdy! Help! Do your creepy forgetting thing before she buries me in the friggin’ garden!!”

Cole says nothing, looking at Oliver as if for permission. He can no longer make people forget things, which is good in this case, but he seems to want to help regardless. The novelty of Sera asking _Cole_ for assistance is enough that Oliver can manage little more than a tired shrug, which Cole seems to take as some sort of affirmation. He slips off after them, disappearing in a subtle puff of faintly green smoke.

“Well,” says Dorian, letting the tensions leave his shoulders and glancing over at Oliver. “Still want to look for Varric?”

“No,” says Oliver flatly. His whole body feels on the verge of collapse. “I want to lie down, face down, on a bed, and never move again.”

“At least part of that can be arranged.” Dorian takes his hand smoothly and guides him through the crowd, walking with such tremendous confidence that no one quite manages to disrupt them, even though Oliver can feel their eyes moving over him, can feel the heightened energy as he passes—he’s not sure if it was the completely unrestrained show of magic that just happened, or the fact that he, Dalish apostate, so-called Herald of Andraste, just saved the entire Winter Palace _again_. Two times in as many hours, one time far more ridiculous than the other. Josephine is right to be furious, but Oliver suspects this will turn out to be another public victory for the Inquisition… if a very strange, very hard-to-believe one.

Dorian successfully navigates them back out to the balcony. Oliver is about to object—there’s no bed to collapse onto _here_ , after all—when Dorian startles him by clambering right over the balcony rail.

“What are you—” he blurts.

“What, _you’ve_ never shimmied down a drainpipe?” Dorian throws him a little smirk, and a lot of the tension and frustration left over in Oliver melts dead away on the spot. “I saw you, squirreling up the trellis in the gardens. Had to put on quite the show to distract from it. I assure you, they were all riveted; I can’t say I’m terribly saddened that an entire siege of rogue bees is now going to be the talk of the night, after having been that centerpiece for so long. Come on, now.” He reaches out with one hand, and Oliver takes it. “Not to worry. I’m not about to let the Inquisitor fall to his death after his stunning successive victories.”

“I’m far more concerned about _you_.” Oliver grins in spite of himself and follows Dorian over the rail. Fortunately, the remark about a drainpipe was figurative; there is another trellis here, allowing them to climb down to the ground with relative ease. Once there, Dorian continues onward like he knows exactly where he’s going, and Oliver is happy enough to follow.

“Was it the Dowager who said they’d be talking about this one into the next Age?” Dorian muses. “Because now I suspect they really _will_.”

“Not if Josephine has anything to do with it,” says Oliver, then frowns faintly at the thought of all the work Sera’s just made for their poor ambassador. “I should have stayed to help her sort this out.”

“Nonsense.” Dorian reaches out to him and sets a gentle hand at the small of his back. “You’ve done enough, _Amatus_. _More_ than enough.”

Oliver smiles softly and they lapse into silence. As they walk, Oliver realizes there really is no one else around, and it has been… a very long time since the two of them had the freedom to just _walk_ together, unseen, un-whispered-about. He nudges Dorian’s hand down from his back and instead laces their fingers together, saying nothing; there is nothing that needs saying, not right now. Perhaps not for the rest of the night.

Dorian leads them on a fairly circuitous route, but he does in fact seem to know where he’s going, and eventually they arrive back at their room. Once inside with the door locked behind them, he turns in toward Oliver and takes both his hands, drawing him back to the bed.

“Does his lordship care to rest for the night?” he asks playfully. “Or… something else?”

“ _Please_ don’t call me that,” Oliver laughs, blushing as Dorian maneuvers him smoothly, gently onto the bed; blushing harder as Dorian, instead of joining him, crouches down to unlace his boots. “Er… what are you…”

“I know how you hate wearing these,” murmurs Dorian without looking up.

Oliver gazes down at him, for a moment unable to speak or even think straight; he holds his silence until Dorian has slipped both boots off, tucking them neatly aside. He continues to hold it as Dorian straightens up and embarks on the process of undressing himself, or at least undoing the jacket.

“It’s your fault I had to wear this awful thing,” Dorian remarks of the garment. “The Inquisitor’s favored guest—or however Josephine spun it.”

“Quite the trial, I’m sure,” says Oliver softly. Absently, he raises his hands to his own collar, undoing the snaps gingerly.

“Let me.” Dorian divests himself of the garish red jacket and drapes it over the nearby dresser; then he leans in and fusses over Oliver, undoing his jacket, behaving as though this were rote.

“You don’t _have_ to—” Oliver says uncertainly.

“I know that, _Amatus_.” Dorian meets his eyes, just for a moment, before refocusing on his task. He’s smiling. He’s flushed, still a little drunk, as beautiful as ever.

Oliver tips forward the few inches it takes to close the gap between them, disrupting his focus with ease. Dorian mumbles a soft note of surprise against his mouth, but falls into it as naturally as anything. His hand slips delicately around the back of Oliver’s neck, fingers playing at the edges of his perpetually messy hair. Gradually, without breaking contact, Oliver scoots back, and Dorian leans in with him, climbing onto the bed, climbing over him.

When Dorian pulls up, he’s still smiling, even more flushed, maybe a little less drunk. “Changed your mind about not moving for the rest of time, have you?”

“I’m still rather attached to the _rest of time_ part,” says Oliver, laying his hands lightly on either side of Dorian’s face, cupping under the curve of his jaw, thumbs smoothing over the defined lines of his cheekbones. “Do you think anyone will notice we’re gone?”

“Forever? Or for now?” Dorian chuckles as he wraps his arms around Oliver’s waist, adjusting their position some. “Because either way, I assure you, Varric is already writing an entire series about it.”

Oliver laughs aloud, which feels strange, and good. “You’re probably right,” he says as Dorian sinks down over him once again.

*

At present, Varric could not care less what Oliver and Dorian are getting up to. He has his own matters to attend to, which is a polite way of referring to a very impolite act. Things have moved very quickly from when Cassandra commanded him to undress—all but tearing his shirt off, pulling him back with her, a mad scramble to get into the position they’re now in: she stands braced against the wall of the cloakroom, her trousers at her ankles, her fingers wrapped tight into his hair, his tunic on the floor beside them and his hands on her thighs. He hasn’t started yet, forcing patience into a fraught situation. He can’t help lingering a bit; he still can’t quite believe this is happening.

“ _Well?”_ she says a bit breathlessly.

“Well,” he says, letting his fingers trail slowly down the insides of her intimidatingly muscular thighs.

“With the amount of _talking_ you do, I’m shocked it takes you so long to put your tongue to use.”

Good one. He glances up to see her frowning at him in spite of it; he grins in response, flashing a sliver of white teeth, and her fingers curl reflexively, tugging his hair even tighter.

A little sound escapes him, just barely past a breath. He swallows thickly. “And here I thought joining your order was all about peace and contemplation,” he says, struggling to maintain his poise. “Can’t you just be in the moment, Seeker?”

“Not if you insist on prolonging it indefinitely.” She takes another drag on the pipe, which she has more or less claimed as her own, smoking like there’s no damn tomorrow. Varric would grumble about how she’s burning through his stash if it weren’t such a novel sight. Far from relaxing her, it’s only served to make her _more_ insistent—well, it’s relaxed her too, got her to the point of dropping her pants after all, but still. He supposes there really is no overwriting that personality. It’s what makes her Cassandra, after all.

“Are you going to simply stare at me all night?” she says impatiently. She lets go of his hair and seizes him by his broad, faintly scratchy chin instead. “Or are you going to finish what you started?”

“I believe _you_ started this,” he says, but he’s having trouble wanting to argue with that hand on him. He’d assume it’s the elfroot making her tactile, but she’s always been handsy—a little much for his liking, in fact, when it came to hitting him in the face with books and punching him and dragging him about by the ear, figuratively or not. _This_ is the kind of handsy he can get into.

Still, he isn’t in the mood to let her push him around all night. He lets one hand drift from her leg to her hand, delicately nudging it aside. “Don’t rush me,” he says. “You can’t rush art.”

A laugh bursts out of her, and it startles the shit out of him, if he’s being honest—he’s not sure he’s _ever_ heard Cassandra laugh like that, the woman never emits anything more mirthful than a dry, barely-amused huff. It might be at his expense, but he probably deserves it after a line like that. It’s enough to finally move him into action; he wants to hear her make some _noise_ , and he’s gonna damn well do it.

He’s tall for a dwarf, but Cassandra is tall for a human, and he doesn’t have to bend much at all to get his head right in between her legs, his fingers drifting from her hips to her cunt, touching her with the same masterful delicacy that’s usually reserved for his crossbow. Her breath stutters in audible shock, and her thighs clench around him. He runs his fingers over her softly and with an ease that speaks to years of experience; then he spreads her, and as her hand curls insistently back into his hair, he presses his mouth in against her and licks a single long, slow stroke.

“Va— _ahh_ ,” she gasps, her whole body shuddering against him; she rolls her hips in a sharp, uncontrolled jerk, and he answers with a muffled groan, letting the last vestiges of pride or reservation slip away. He mouths at her hungrily, letting the scent and flavor of her overwhelm his senses, his tongue swirling deftly between the folds of her before darting nimbly over her clit, winding her up. Her quick, heavy breathing solidifies into a moan, louder than he expected (and he _should_ have expected it). Distantly he knows things are quieting down out there, and they’re almost definitely going to be heard, but he can’t stop now: his rolls his knuckles gently against her until his fingers are slick, and then he slips two inside her, his primary focus still on sucking slow and insistent at the tip of her. He is very, very good at this; he’s been told that before, and he intends to prove it now. Let her be surprised, if she will. He raises his eyebrows to look up at Cassandra and sees her eyes shut tight, her mouth open in a noiseless cry, her skin hot and flushed and a little bit shiny with sweat. She seems to feel him looking, or maybe it’s that he stalls out a bit; her eyes flutter back open and she looks at him, gasping, rolling her hips in a gradually quickening rhythm.

He grins and she shudders again; her fist closes tighter in his hair and she _pulls_ , drawing a startled moan from him as she bucks against his mouth. Of course, fucking would turn out to be an argument, too—not that it’s a disappointment. His fingers curl inside her and she cries out, full-throated, low and loud.

“It’s like you _want_ an audience,” he taunts, and she answers by wrapping one leg around his back, more or less forcing him back into place. Well, _shit_ , if she really wants it hard who is he to argue. He carries on with all the avid energy she’s demanding, and only when she’s started to tremble and her hips have begun to move in short, sharp jerks, does he allow himself the same pleasure, reaching his free hand down his trousers to squeeze around his hard, aching cock. That has to be secondary; his fingers curl again deep inside her, while he licks slow and insistent, tipping her past a breaking point where it seems like she might collapse; precarious, because his hands aren’t there to brace her and she’s resting part of her weight on him already. But Cassandra knows what she’s doing, too; she pushes her weight back against the wall, taking the pressure off him even as he brings her to her proverbial knees (knees quaking around him, holding herself up by sheer, indomitable strength); and when he finally pulls back she _does_ sink down, not in a collapse but to grip him hard by the shoulders and push him back until he’s pinned against the opposite wall.

“What are you—” he breathes, but she’s not interested in talking anymore, staring him directly in the eye as she reaches into his trousers and pushes his hand out of the way, taking over the task. Her free hand (where did the pipe end up? He spots it on the floor, _fortunately_ not having set fire to anything and roasted them alive in here, _shit_ that could have been bad—) clutches at his chest, fingers curling into thick reddish hair as she holds him still, jerking him off steadily. He can only stare at her, lips parted and wet and swollen, eyes dazed and lidded. He grabs her shoulder to keep from buckling as she brings him to the edge; once she has him there, she tugs his trousers down, reaches out for one of the cloaks hanging above them and yanks until it comes down.

“What the—” he says, utterly baffled, and watches with wide, disbelieving eyes as she roots around until she finds some poor Orlesian’s fine silk scarf, wraps it around her hand, reaches back in and finishes him off.

“Andraste’s sacred flaming _ass_ , Seeker!” he rasps out as she peers down to make sure she’s caught all the mess. “Did you really just—did I just come in someone’s _best silks?_ And I thought Sera was out to get these people.”

“I’m not going to leave it here for them to _find_ ,” she says, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “They will have lost it somewhere, and will simply buy another. They are very good at replacing their material possessions.” She balls up the soiled scarf, casts around for somewhere to stash it, and failing that, stuffs it into the _pocket of her trousers_. Varric stares at her, openly aghast, wondering from where in the unholy void this woman came from to replace the one he’s always known.

“Did you really just…” he says, pointing vaguely at her as she pulls her trousers back up.

“I will dispose it when I _can_ ,” she says, frowning at him. “Don’t belabor the point.”

“All right, all right.” He raises his hands in a pacifying gesture, then wipes distractedly at his face. “So, uh…”

“That was… most adequate,” she says, flushing again, not even looking at him as she buttons her trousers. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ , Lady Seeker.” He takes a moment to reset his clothes and catch his breath before smirking up at her. “I’m sure we’ll do this again sometime.”

“We—” she starts, indignation flaring up again before she seems to find herself run aground, nothing in particular to argue against. She relaxes a bit. “I—yes. I suppose. If we must. Perhaps. Do not grow accustomed to the idea, dwarf.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.” He can’t stop grinning.

 

And that was, rather markedly, that. The trouble then became how to escape the closet now that matters had settled down and they realized they had almost certainly been heard. The solution involved a quick argument over which of them would venture out first and behave loudly and convincingly like they had sought lone shelter from the bees, while the other would lie in wait for the appropriate moment to emerge—neither option particularly tantalizing to either of them. It was a solution that worked, more or less, in that it was so obvious and inelegant a ruse that it held little interest for the Orlesians, who ever desired more tantalizingly esoteric scandals.

But that hardly matters, because none of this happened. There were no bees at the Winter Palace—only the story, perpetuated by a lot of people who were surely very drunk and very given to swelling an already unbelievable tale past the point of plausibility. Some of them were able to present what might appear to be bee stings, but most chose _not_ to, as they were rather unsightly, embarrassing markers; and in the end, it was far easier to agree that no, of course, the entire idea was ridiculous. That the Inquisition stopped an assassination plot against the Empress was one thing, and it could be believed; that it also protected the entire court from a swarm of enraged bees was simply a bridge too far. There were no bees, nor any pilfered food, nor anyone spotted crawling down a trellis, nor an entire closet full of expensive fur cloaks that had become infused with the smell of burning elfroot, and _certainly_ no one who overheard a noted Seeker of Truth moaning loudly through the locked door of that same purported closet. Both Josephine, with her formidable powers of diplomacy, and Varric, with his precise, strictly detailed, wholly truthful and entirely reliable narration, saw to that.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so sorry i worked in the fucking breadsticks meme


End file.
